The New York Story
by frozen-delight
Summary: To Sam it was always The New York Story. [Episode Coda for 10x09 "The Things We Left Behind. Sam/Dean.]


**Title:** The New York Story  
**Author:** frozen_delight  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating:** Mature  
**Warnings:** Angst. Incest. Dark themes.  
**Spoilers:** Up to and including 10x09 "The Things We Left Behind".  
**Word count:** ~ 4600  
**Beta**: Many, many thanks to the fabulous **canonisrelative** who was once again incredibly kind and supportive and unbelievably quick. All remaining mistakes are mine of course.  
**Summary:** To Sam it was always The New York Story.

**A/N:** Coda to 10x09 because I thought it was interesting that Dean's reactions to the "John Winchester in New York" tale were quite different than Sam's, and because I felt that the actions of teenager!Dean were wildly OOC, and could only be explained by the fact that this was the "sanitized for Sammy" version rather than what actually happened. This started out strictly gen, and then somehow some angsty Wincest crept into the mix – sorry for that.

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**The New York Story**

To Sam it was always The New York Story.

_He was way underage_, Sam said. _First time_, Sam said. Making Dean sound more innocent, trying to make it sound less like Dean had done something wrong.

Of course, the look on Dad's face back then had told a different story altogether. _What have I always taught you, son? You need to know what's out there. Otherwise you're prey._

Dean shuddered and leaned against the headboard. He was cold.

He thought of Sam feeding him burgers and pie here on this bed after Dean had tried to kill him with a hammer, staying with him despite everything. This time, Dean had killed – _slaughtered_ – five men for real. And Sam was still here, taking care of him.

After Cas had disappeared with Claire – who understandably didn't want to ride in the same car with Dean – Sam had driven them back to the bunker, quietly replaying Dean's favorite Zeppelin tape over and over. Dean had allowed the music to wash over him like a kind caress he didn't deserve but couldn't withstand, while the events of the evening re-echoed in his head in an eternal loop of doom. Sam hadn't said a single word. And Dean hadn't spoken either.

He had no idea how long they drove.

Back at the bunker, Sam had immediately dragged him into the shower room. How he got out of his blood-soaked clothes, Dean couldn't quite remember. Only when the soap slipped from his fingers for the second time did he realize he was shaking. Wordlessly, Sam picked it up from the tiles and started lathering him. His hands were steady.

First, they enveloped his head and parted his hair, carefully washing away all the dry, crusted blood that clung to the strands. They were strong and gentle at the same time. Dean closed his eyes and gave himself up to the sensation. Distantly, he noticed how Sam's hands lingered over the cut on his forehead, as if that alone could explain and excuse everything that had happened.

Then, Sam soaped his front, his back, his arms, and even his hands. A part of Dean registered that Sam's hands were bigger than his, something he'd known for years, but could never quite get used to. He thought of how small Sam's hands had been when Dean had first held them, leading his little brother everywhere, never letting go. He recalled the strange pain in his chest when Sam had crossed the street for the first time without clinging to his hand. Shortly after that he told Dean to stop calling him Sammy. That had hurt even more. But all that seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, Sam was holding Dean's hand in his. Except that Dean was no innocent little boy. He didn't need a caretaker, he needed a watchdog. And all the soap and water and care in the world wouldn't change that.

When Sam had satisfied himself that not even Dean's nails would betray what had happened at Randy's, his hands started moving further downwards, unhurried and firm. Even though the rushing of the water over him was nothing more than a faraway buzz in his ears and a faint trickle on his skin, even though it felt as if he was catching glimpses of Sam's hands operating behind a thick opaque glass panel rather than being directly involved himself, it was still too much to ignore the motion entirely.

Dean leaned his head against the tiles behind him and tried not to think of the last time Sam had touched him there. Frantic fumbles in the back of the Impala, hasty kisses in motel rooms and a couple of even hastier blowjobs, all in the months before Dean went to Hell and was too desperate for comfort to protest. He'd liked to think that his stint downstairs had not only removed most of his outward marks of failure and stupidity, but also scraped him clean of that particular sin. Looking at himself in the mirror at the Gas-n-Sip, his skin as fresh as a baby's apart from Cas's glaringly red handprint, he'd felt rehymenated in more ways than one.

This time, there was no getting clean. This time, he couldn't even die properly, not without help. He fervently hoped Cas would come back soon.

He must have started shaking more noticeably, for all of a sudden Sam reached up and folded his arms around him, shushing Dean the way Dean had soothed him countless times when they were little, when it was dark and storming outside and Dad wasn't back yet from his latest hunt.

Dean didn't know how long Sam had held him, the water sluicing over their heads and down their backs. He thought Sam might have said something, then, but it had been no more than an unintelligible hum in Dean's ears, and Sam hadn't repeated himself.

Afterwards, Sam carefully toweled him dry and helped him dress, wrapping Dean in one of his own hoodies to keep him warm.

Sitting on his bed, waiting for Sam or Cas or both, Dean was still cold, though. With the cold came awareness. And because he was weak and pathetic and never the man he should have been, he wished himself back into the dullness of limb and mind that had enveloped him under the shower. To no avail.

He pressed more tightly against the headboard and waited. He wasn't sure why he was thinking about Dad's face in New York all those years ago – maybe because he simply couldn't bear to think about Sam's face back at Randy's earlier that evening when he'd seen – _had_ to see no matter he might have wanted not to – what Dean had done.

When the door finally opened he shivered. There was Sam, approaching Dean slowly, but not because he was scared of him, like he ought to be, only because he didn't want to startle him. He was bringing Dean another grilled cheese of all things.

As though Dean hadn't already eaten enough that day – was it really still the same day? – to make the roof of his mouth bleed.

Dean slowly looked up at his brother, even though looking at him hurt. He swallowed. "I'm not hungry," he said. His mouth felt dry. He forced himself to keep looking at Sam. "I haven't been hungry for a long time."

"Okay," Sam said, soft and unhappy and a thousand other things, and put the plate down. Then he lowered himself onto the bed, his thighs on either side of Dean's, effectively straddling him.

Dean stared at him and thought of Sam's hands in the shower and the million reasons why they should never start anything like that again. "I don't think this is a good idea." His voice was low.

Surprise flashed across Sam's face. He looked down at their legs, but didn't shift. Of course – because Sam hadn't meant anything by it. Probably he didn't even remember. He just wanted to keep Dean from escaping the talk he'd prepared. The talk about how Dean had just killed five people in cold blood. Honestly, if he weren't rotten to the core, Dean wouldn't be able to think about anything else either.

Sam shrugged a little helplessly. "What would be a better idea? Sit back and wait for you to destroy yourself? Make way for Cas to destroy you?"

"Sam…"

"I heard you praying to him, Dean," Sam shot back, his mouth pinched. This wasn't his standard _Dean, stop using my razor and stealing my fries_-bitchface. It was the bitchface that was usually reserved for apocalyptic _Heaven and Hell are screwing us over_-moments. Seeing it now, Dean's thumb itched to rub it away. It was a token of how unforgivably he'd fucked up this time – and a reminder of why he needed Cas to smite him as soon as possible, no matter what Sam thought about it. "I don't know exactly what you asked of him, but it's really not that difficult to guess."

"Sam…" Dean raised a hand to pat his brother's head and calm him, but since his arm felt like lead, his hand softly slapped against Sam's cheek instead.

Sam clasped his own – freakishly large – hand over Dean's and pulled it down to rest on his knee. Dean saw his brother's jaw clench and unclench several times, and when he spoke again, his voice was like Dad's when he'd issued an order, booking no opposition whatsoever. "I don't care what you planned, it's not going to happen. I have angel-warded this entire place, and if Cas appears in so much as a fifty-mile radius, I'll stab him before he can say presto. You don't get to quit, you understand that?"

"Okay Sammy," Dean said, because there was nothing else for him to say.

A flash of something akin to disappointment crossed his brother's face, as though he'd actually wanted Dean to fight this out with him. The next second though, it was gone, and Sam calmly gazed down at their joined hands on his knee. "I know you don't want to talk about it." It sounded like forgiveness and understanding. It made Dean want to punch something, possibly Sam, but mostly himself. "I know you're terrified. So tell me something – what really happened in New York?"

Dean gaped at him, at a loss where this change of subject had come from. "What?"

"You don't want to talk about what happened earlier at Randy's. So I want to know more about that time we were in New York with Dad."

"Sam, what do you mean? We've been over this story hundreds of times."

"I know. And I feel like I never really understood what it was about, not until now."

Dean had no idea why Sam was suddenly determined to chip away at one of their few shared childhood memories, but he liked it no better than that time when Sam had scratched the wall in his head and ended up convulsing at Dean's feet. The damn kid never knew when to leave well enough alone. Equal parts angry and worried, Dean asked, "Are you okay, Sam?"

Sam huffed a humorless laugh. "Of course I'm not okay. You want to how I feel? I'm sad. I'm angry. I feel betrayed, alright? And I'm fucking terrified."

Dean wanted to say something, _sorry_ preferably, but no sound came out.

"You've been lying to me for months," Sam said. "I get why, I get it, but this – you should have said something, before. So at least talk to me now, okay? Tell me what really happened back in New York. It was a fun story for me, every time you told me. You always told it like a fun story. And you repeated it so often. But it wasn't fun for you when it happened, was it?"

Unbidden, the fleeting image of a big, hot hand creeping up his thigh flashed through the shadows of his mind. Dean sincerely wished he could still shut up Sam the way he had when they were little: _Quit asking, Sammy. You don't want to know_. He kept his face blank and merely raised his eyebrows a tad. "You're overthinking things. As usual."

Seeing his brother's frown deepen, Dean tried to pull his hand back, but Sam wouldn't let it go. "I don't think I am, Dean. You told me this story when I was upset because Dad neglected us. Or when I was fighting with him. Always this story, of how Dad was such a cool guy, and always there for us."

"He was always there for us, Sam."

Sam sighed. "I know we both keep saying that, but it's not really true. Where was he when that banshee threw me against the sink in our motel room and I had bruises on my back for weeks? Dean, you were the one who had to deal with my gym teacher thinking I was being abused at home! Or how about that time when he made you play bait for that wood sprite and you were lucky that you got out with just your ankle broken because he'd found a new lead on the demon and couldn't be bothered to be there in time –"

"Sam," Dean interjected. Surely, now wasn't the time to discuss Dad's greatest hits, not when Dean had fucked up on a whole new level?

Sam halted him with a small shake of his head, a gesture Dean found far too old and resigned for the little brother he'd once carried out of a burning house in his arms. "It's not important. He tried, I know he did, but you have to admit you told me that one story so many times because there wasn't much else to tell."

"But that was enough," Dean murmured hoarsely.

Sam tilted his head, his eyes kind and pitying. Again, Dean considered punching him – or himself. "I'm not sure, Dean, you tell me. All I know is that _It's my job to raise you right_, that's what Dad said to me, over and over, but never to you. You were always the good son."

_I had to leave your brother alone in the motel room, do you _want_ something to happen to him_, Dad's voice had scolded him outside the club through the drunken, drugged haze surrounding him. His face was as dark as it had been when the shtriga almost fed on Sammy, putting a new complexion on the faceless horror that had Dean in its clutches ever since he'd sat down at that table back in the club. Dad looked like he hated him. _How do you want to help me fight monsters when you're too weak to deal with a couple of humans?_ Dean had swallowed, then, and his mouth tasted of failure and ten flavors of pathetic.

"Not that night," Dean mumbled, the same stale, stinging taste on his tongue.

"You were drunk for the first time – not to mention roofied! The way you've always described it, you were already dizzy by the time Dad showed up – no way you were even capable of stringing together a single sentence, never mind shouting at Dad how much you hated him."

Dean tried to shake off the memory of Dad's cold, hard face and attempted to play it cool. "If that's your logic, I'm starting to wonder if you're not drunk and roofied right now."

Sam didn't even deign to reply to that.

For a tense moment they stared at each other. Dean expected Sam to roll his eyes, in grudging amusement or annoyance. But Sam merely fixed him with a stubborn glare. That was when Dean knew he'd lost that round. "What did Dad really say to you?" Sam asked.

Dean smiled ruefully. "You're like a dog with a bone, you know that?"

Sam squeezed his hand. "Always."

Gazing into his brother's determined face, Dean shifted uncomfortably and bit his lip, unsure where to start and what to reveal. "Dad wasn't happy, alright? I ignored his orders, and I put you in danger –"

"That's bullshit, Dean."

"No, Dad had to leave you alone to come get me – I should have thought about that. So yeah, he gave me a good talking to about how I'd screwed up."

When he next spoke, Sam's voice was weirdly quiet and gentle. "And you, Dean, what did you say?"

With a start, Dean became aware that Sam's thumb was stroking the back of his hand. Maybe Sam had started this only now, maybe he'd been doing it all along, Dean really couldn't tell. And even though this was _Sam_, it scared him. He pulled back his hand. This time, Sam let him go, his eyes wide with concern.

"Nothing."

"But then why –"

Dean firmly trained his eyes on his lap. "I was scared, okay?" he confessed. "I didn't understand what was happening and I was scared. Sammy, I did my best to make you feel safe and you were just a kid back then. Should I really have told you I was scared shitless?"

"You were just a kid, too."

"No, I wasn't."

"You were fifteen, Dean!"

"Whatever," Dean muttered, utterly tired if this conversation where Sam was still making excuses for him that he didn't deserve.

He'd tried to make things up to Dad back then, but not a month later Dad pointed at the key witness on their latest case, a smarmy bartender who refused to talk and who'd been eyeing Dean appreciatively ever since they'd arrived: _He knows something. You find out what, son_. That was when he understood that there was no making it better.

_That_ hadn't changed. Just the multitude of Dean's sins.

"But Dean, I'm not a kid anymore," Sam began again. He was still using that soft and quiet tone. The one that sounded as though he were trying to calm a spooked horse. The one that set Dean's teeth on edge. "You can tell me now. Did something happen in the club?"

"Nothing happened. They drugged me and that guy put his hand on my leg –"

"The one with the safety pin?"

"Yes. And then Dad showed up." Dean decided not to mention how he had no idea how long the dude's hand had sat on his thigh, slowly creeping higher, before he noticed it. How he'd been paralyzed and couldn't move a single muscle to shake it off. How he'd looked, everything flickering before his eyes like a non-remastered movie from the twenties, and didn't understand, not until Dad had given him a hint later on: _You're prey_.

"That's all?" Sam asked. Dean knew it was only out of concern, but it hit him almost as hard as Dad's face back then. _That's all? Nothing happened and you were still terrified – what the hell is wrong with you? _"There's nothing wrong with that," Sam continued hastily, as though he could tell exactly what Dean had been thinking. Then his eyes narrowed slightly, and Dean could see Sam put the pieces together. He blushed.

When Sam said nothing, Dean's heartrate picked up. That Sam refused to take the opportunity to tease Dean with how perfectly inexperienced he'd been at fifteen, when Dean had frequently called him a late bloomer and gleefully rubbed it into his face throughout Sam's teenage years how amazing his first-time with Kathy Jenkins had been at thirteen – instead of admitting that he'd actually been sixteen at the time –, showed just how bad things were right now. No brotherly digs at Dean, not when he was a bloodthirsty monster.

"You satisfied now?" Dean asked as petulantly as he could, and looked away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam move, and the next moment Sam had cupped his face and was forcing Dean to look at him. Sam's eyes seemed to mirror his own despair and Dean had no idea how to stop Sam looking at him like that. He tried to back away, but his skull immediately hit the headboard. There was no escape from his brother's stupid tragic face.

"Dean," Sam said, as though it hurt him to even pronounce his brother's name, and Dean flinched. "I'm not going to be satisfied until we clean up this mess. But we're going to fix this, you hear me? And we're going to do it together." There was more pain than hope to the words.

The last thing Dean wanted was to drag his brother further into the darkness with him, so he didn't reply. Cas would take him out, nice and quick, and that would be it. No more trying from Sam. No more despairing for Sam. Sam would finally be safe.

With a sigh, Sam leaned further into his personal space and rested his forehead against Dean's. "Man, I need to know you're still in there, fighting." His fingers clutched Dean's skull more tightly, and Dean realized that Sam hadn't forgotten about any of it, any more than Dean had, a fraction of a second before Sam's lips touched his.

For a moment, Dean froze, his mind stuck on _No!_ and _Don't!_ _This is wrong! _There was unmistakable hunger on his brother's face – Sam wanted this. There was no saying how many things Dean must have done wrong do make Sam want him, but he couldn't change that now. All he could do was give Sam this one last thing, and maybe thereby make his brother forget and shut up and sleep, and keep him happy a little while longer after Dean had left.

He ignored the voice inside his head that sounded suspiciously like his little brother, berating him _You want to talk about wrong? _This_ is wrong!,_ and opened his mouth under Sam's greedy tongue and teeth.

Sam's touch and kiss was nothing like it had been the last time. Back then, he'd still been half a boy. Now he was a grown man. In some ways, he was more gentle now. In others, more demanding. As Sam explored his mouth with his searing hot tongue, Dean felt as though he were being split wide open, and Sam was digging his path even into the remotest parts of his damaged soul, dragging it all out into the open, and licking it clean. Sam wanted all of him, and it was thrilling and scary enough to let Dean's pulse race and to make him chase Sam's lips every time his brother broke away to take a breath.

Eventually, Sam moved his lips away from Dean's, and started mouthing his jawline instead, then the tender spot behind Dean's ear, which elicited an embarrassingly raw groan from Dean, until he trailed his mouth wetly over Dean's throat and sucked a mark on his collarbone.

Dean twisted his head to give Sam better access, and shifted his attention downwards, where his brother's hard cock was digging into his thigh. At the first touch of his hand, Sam arched up against him with a wanton moan. It was the best sound Dean had heard since waking up that morning, still shaking from his bloody nightmares. He knew that he could never make things right, not anymore, but at least he could still do this and grant his brother a little comfort.

He continued to palm his brother through his pants, until Sam suddenly released his hold on Dean's face and started stripping off his jeans. Once his legs were free, Dean returned the favor. Then Sam maneuvered them onto their sides, so that he was spooning Dean from behind. One of Sam's hands snuck into his boxers, while the other trailed endless patterns of affection over Dean's back. Dean twisted his head a little, to cup Sam's face, to pet his hair and to kiss him. Sam's eyes were scrunched shut. He almost looked like he was in pain.

Through both their boxers, Sam's hard dick nudged Dean's ass, while Sam's hand finally found Dean's cock and started pumping and squeezing it in a breathtaking rhythm. Dean groaned, confronted once again with just how big Sam's hands were – his fingers covered Dean's length and easily encompassed him. He swallowed Sam's answering moan in a deep kiss.

Soon, Sam also started rolling his hips, picking up the rhythm of his hand. His cock pushed against Dean's ass, more insistent with each thrust, until it slid between his ass cheeks and nudged Dean's entrance every time Sam rocked his hips, the two layers of cotton still separating them doing nothing to lessen the intimacy of the motion.

Dean felt as though he were surrounded by a legion of Sams, so entirely was he enveloped by his brother from all directions, and his breath stuttered in his throat. He whimpered and bit his lip to keep himself from spilling the words that were threatening to get out. _You're hurting me, Sammy._ And: _Don't you ever stop._

Against his neck, Sam babbled a string of curses and endearments, complemented by the occasional fierce _Don't you give up on me, Dean_. _Don't you do that_.

In an embarrassingly short time they both came in their boxers, Dean's hoarse cry as he squirted over Sam's hand pushing Sam over the edge. Like teenagers, Dean thought. _It's almost as if we'd never done this before._

For the first time since he'd entered Randy's house Dean felt something akin to peace.

Languidly, he nibbled at Sam's lips and threaded his fingers through his brother's hair. Sam trailed a thumb over his cheek, soft and sweet. A wave of tenderness welled up inside Dean and he had to turn his head away and bite his pillow to keep himself from sobbing with the overwhelming feeling of _You're my brother and I love you. I'd do anything for you. I'd kill for you. I'd die for you_.

Sam moved the hand that was still splayed out over Dean's crotch up to rest on his stomach. As he moved, Sam's arm brushed the Mark, and it started to throb again, dark and insistent. All calm drained away, and the glowing chant of his boundless love for his brother was replaced by the harsh battle rhythm of the Mark. _I really, really need to kill. I really, really need to die_.

Strange, how for a moment Dean had forgotten all about it. He looked down at Sam's hand and swallowed hard. He'd lied to himself for months, ignoring the dark threat of the Mark and his growing hunger for blood, so he might as well be honest with himself now: This hadn't been all for Sam, not entirely. Maybe he wanted Sam too.

"I'm going to save you," Sam mumbled behind him, tired and spent, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Dean's neck.

"You do that, Sammy," Dean agreed quietly, caressing Sam's hand. He was relieved when he felt Sam relax against him.

Dean waited until Sam was breathing deep and even behind him, his arm still slung around Dean's waist. It was a good thing Dean had spent many years sharing a bed with his little brother. It had taught him how to get up without waking Sam. Carefully, Dean extricated himself and crept out of the bed. The floor was cold under his bare feet. He didn't bother getting dressed.

At the door, Dean turned back to gaze at his sleeping brother. He hated having to leave him like this, but New York had taught him one thing: Either you're the hunter or you're the hunted. And what he'd done at Randy's, that hadn't been a hunter's work. He needed to go. "Cas made me a promise, Sammy," he whispered tonelessly. "And I'm going to make him keep it."

He shut the door behind him and stole out of the bunker. No use waking his brother trying to find and eliminate the warding sigils.

Outside, he sank down on the ground and prayed. The humid soil caved under his knees. He prayed to the angel who'd raised him from perdition to push him back into it.

He'd ask Cas to tell Sam something. How he'd been hunted down. Crowley, Rowena, Cain, it didn't really matter. Some kind of story. He'd ask Cas to repeat it, again and again, no matter how much Sam might ask and beg and storm. And maybe Sam would never know.

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